The Carter of ’La Providence’ by Georges Simenon Page B

lock at Ay know that its arrival was imminent.
    â€˜Don’t waste time … Just drive … Catch up with that car if you can.’
    Maigret had flagged down a baker’s van, which was heading in the direction of Épernay. About a kilometre ahead they could see the car carrying Madame Negretti. It was moving slowly: the road was wet and greasy.
    When the inspector had stated his rank, the van driver had looked at him with amused curiosity.
    â€˜Hop in. It won’t take me five minutes to catch them up.’
    â€˜No, not too fast.’
    Then it was Maigret’s turn to smile when he saw that his driver was crouching over the steering wheel just like American cops do in car chases in Hollywood crime films.
    There was no need to risk life and limb, nor any kind of complication. The car stopped briefly in the first street it came to, probably to allow the passenger to confer with the driver. Then it drove off again and halted three minutes later
outside what clearly was a rather expensive hotel.
    Maigret got out of the van a hundred metres behind it, thanked the baker, who refused a tip and, having decided he wanted to see more, parked a little nearer the hotel.
    A porter carried both bags in. Gloria Negretti walked briskly across the pavement.
    Ten minutes later, Maigret was talking to the manager.
    â€˜The lady who has just checked in?’
    â€˜Room 9. I thought there was something not quite right about her. I never saw anybody more on edge. She talked fast and used lots of foreign words. As far as I could tell, she didn’t want to be disturbed and asked for cigarettes and a
bottle of kümmel to be taken up to her room. I hope at least there’s not going to be any scandal …?’
    â€˜None at all!’ said Maigret. ‘Just some questions I need to ask her.’
    He could not help smiling as he neared the door with the number 9 on it, for there was lots of noise coming from inside. The young woman’s high heels clacked on the wooden floor in a haphazard way.
    She was walking to and fro, up and down, in all directions. She could be heard closing a window, tipping out a suitcase, running a tap, throwing herself on to the bed, getting up and kicking off a shoe to
the other end of the room.
    Maigret knocked.
    â€˜Come in!’
    Her voice was shaking with anger and impatience. Madame Negretti had not been there ten minutes and yet she had found time to change her clothes, to muss up her hair and, in a word, to revert to the way she had looked on board the
Southern
Cross
, but to an even messier degree.
    When she saw who it was, a flash of rage appeared in her brown eyes.
    â€˜What do you want with me? What are you doing here? This is my room! I’m paying for it and …’
    She continued in a foreign language, probably Spanish, unscrewed the top off a bottle of eau de Cologne and poured most of the contents over her hands before dabbing her fevered brow with it.
    â€˜May I ask you a question?’
    â€˜I told them I didn’t want to see anybody. Get out! Do you hear?’
    She was walking around in her silk stockings. She was most likely not wearing garters, for they began to slide down her legs. One had already uncovered a podgy, very white knee.
    â€˜Why don’t you go and put your questions to people who can give you the answers? But you don’t dare, do you? Because he’s a colonel. Because he’s
Sir
Walter!
Don’t you just love the
Sir
! Ha ha! If I told you only half of what I know …
    â€˜Look at this!’
    She rummaged feverishly in her handbag and produced five crumpled 1,000-franc notes.
    â€˜This is what he just gave me! For what? For two years, for the two years that I’ve been living with him! That …’
    She threw the notes on the carpet then, changing her mind, picked them up again and put them back in her bag.
    â€˜Of course, he promised he’d send me a cheque. But